The first time I saw a pigeon on my balcony, it was a bit of a surprise. This is Los Angeles, after all. Vultures, ravens, these are the winged beasts the subconscious expects to be hovering above the urban sprawl. Pigeons belong in New York, strutting through Central Park among senior citizens with breadcrumbs and no immediate plans.
It looks innocent enough, perched there on the pale green metal railing, head bobbing slightly as those beady, burnt-amber eyes peer across the hazy morning sky in search of large statues and freshly washed cars.